


Time Heals All Manner of Wounds

by MatildaSwan



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Malcolm has a sister, Minor Violence, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Prison, Seriously people, The Murray Children, finally finished editing the damn wildebeest of a fic, ive never been more proud of myself in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:29:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He prays during the trial, actually <i>prays</i> to stay out of prison: he's glad he didn't have any faith to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> ttoikinkmeme: Malcolm/Nicola, a year or so down the road: Malcolm served his jail time and has gotten a bit of his soul back. Nicola has slogged along as a regular old MP and gotten a reputation as less of a laughingstock and more of a conniving bitch. A chance meeting brings them back together.
> 
> (And I'm pretty sure I nicked Malcolm's book title from TheCrazyGeek. I'm sorry darling, but it's a damn good title. I'll change it if you want.

“Falling from grace is never easy: it’s not meant to be.

That's non-negotiable; it’s a punishment, not a settlement. Plummeting from favour is bad enough in the real world, at least there you only fall back to earth. With Politics, you’re lucky if you end up in hell. Most of us travel through the core of the earth and are never heard from again.

In politics, you don’t just fall down from paradise to atone for your sins. You get kicked out, by the man in charge at that time. You take a bruising on the way down, catch your clothes on rocks as you roll down towards earth: all the people who kicked you on the way up ready to give you another wallop of their boot. “

- _Omnishambles,_ Malcolm Tucker.

 


	2. Sunshine Hits the Shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Heard It All Before by Emiliana Torrini

Nicola didn’t fall: she plummeted, head first from the top of a mountain bathed in shadows. She scraped along trees on her way down, branches and barbs tearing at her skin along the way. Bruised and bleeding, she fell into a river: deep and vast and still. Ice cold but gentle, cradling her body as it floated to the surface: too weak to swim, to broken to fight, but sense enough to hold her breath.

Somehow she managed to survive.

*

The first few months are the hardest.

Everything is so different to when she was originally on the bottom rung, every- _one_ is different. She’s different too, still fumbling with her words, her tongue not quite ready to give up ‘Leader of the Opposition’. It gets better with Helen there to correct her, point out she’s using an antiquated term. Nicola’s glad she stayed; she enjoys the more forceful woman she works with now, more competent and productive than Nicola remembers her being. She thinks not having Ollie there with his snark and sneer all the time has a lot to do with Helen’s new demeanour. It has a lot to do with Nicola’s, too.

She has time to spend at home now and she catches up on her children’s lives. She manages to cram a few weeks of ‘quality time’ in with Katie before she’s off again and away at university. The boys march about as soon as school is over, yelling and thumping around the house: she doesn’t miss that, but the family dinners are lovely. She’s rather impressed with their table skills. They always quieten down after diner, to give Ella time to studying. Nicola finds out later Ella was bribing them with cake. She always was a bright one.

Work is good, she has a family life again and she doesn’t have a panic attack every other week. Nicola thinks things are starting to look up.

Then James asks her to leave, he wants a divorce. Saying it was fine when she wasn’t at home much, but he couldn’t stand sharing a bed with her anymore. They’ve been over for a long time now, and she was stupid to think otherwise. Nicola just stares at him, contempt and calm; says she always knew about the secretary. James stammers, knocked sideways and unsure what to do with a collected Nicola, so different to the one he married. He lashes out, saying it was her fault he strayed. Nicola punches him in the face: he agrees to joint custody and she gets the house.

She’s such a nobody the press don’t even bother to report it.

The next day she offers the kids the day off from school, to explain what’s going on. Ben looks her dead in the eyes and says they already know, and Nicola almost loses it. She manages to get to her bedroom before she bursts into tears, ashamed that her children aren’t children anymore and she wasn’t there to see them grow. Ella gets the boys to school: she’s turned into a mother hen in Nicola’s absence; says she’ll take them to the movies after school, to give her time to sort things out.

Nicola remembers she needs to call a lawyer. She picks up the phone and ends up calling Helen instead.

Helen comes round with a bottle of gin and they pretend they’re working from home. Nicola cries her eyes out, vomits on herself and has a nap in the bathtub. She wakes up that afternoon, still a bit drunk but far more world ready. She finds Helen passed out on the couch and draws glasses on her face with black marker.

Half an hour later Helen wakes up, hazy and soft-faced, and Nicola burst out laughing. She can’t stop, giggles redoubling every time she looks at Helen. She rolls on the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks until Helen realises it has something to do with her and checks her reflection.

Next thing she knows, Nicola’s gotten a pillow to the back of the head and she’s still laughing. Twenty minutes later they’re sitting on the floor with a bottle of red, cushions strewn around the room. The kids burst in through the door, yell and screaming, and the pillow fight starts again.

Nicola smiles as she rescues the wine, running into the kitchen: she knows things were going to be okay.

*

A week or so pass, and there’s still something not quite right. Separation is settled, neither of them plan on contesting and there’s precious little for her to do in a professional capacity, especially away from the ‘office’. If she’d remembered how calm an MP out of cabinet’s life was, she might have resigned earlier. It’s a fleeting thought, quickly replaced with ‘what’s my game plan for the next election?’ She messages Helen, saying she wants to start thinking about the bigger picture and organises a strategy meeting for the next day.

Nicola stands in her bedroom, _her_ bedroom; notices it looks half empty and knows what’s wrong. She barges through the house, moving things around; puts bits in boxes and grabs stuff from the attic. The kids help for a while, grabbing junk from around the house and finding proper places for them to go, now there’s just the four of them living there. Then they get bored and switch on the TV. Nicola leaves them watching cartoons, and retreats to her bedroom again.

It’s time for a change.

She digs up her old wardrobe, the one she used to wear before DoSAC and kept under the false pretence she would actually get time to herself to choose what clothes she wore. She fills the empty space James had left behind: naked coat hangers clothed again.

She starts with black: pulls out everything darker than grey, saving a particularly well-tailored suit and the essential little black dress, and hides all of it in a box in the spare room. She wear a plum skirt the next day. Nothing catastrophic goes wrong and Nicola takes that as a sign.

A week later she starts on brown, not that she had much of it to begin with. Adds them to the box at the back of the cupboard, saving a fawn overcoat she’d bought in France decades ago. Helen’s so distracted at work Nicola snaps fingers under her nose to draw her attention back to earth because yelling wasn’t working. Nicola sends her on a lunch break and doesn’t see her again for three hours, eyes slightly bloodshot. They don’t get much done.

She’s worked her way up to lilac a month later, and a radio interview on an underground youth station goes off without a hitch.

Christmas goes off splendidly, for all a tad strange with the diminished numbers. The kids are off with James’ family when Helen calls her out of the blue, to say she’s engaged. Nicola takes her out to celebrate, glad someone’s life is working too. They spend the entire evening talking about everything but work.

The kids come home and she cuts grey in half: keeps the suits and ditches the dresses. She does the opposite for navy.

Her wardrobe starts to look a tad empty so she goes shopping that weekend, because she has weekends now. No work to choke her, no husband to harass her, Ella’s practically an adult and when the boys aren’t with their father they’re old enough to do as they please, within reason. She finds a back alley market and thrift shops like she did as a student, spring sun shining like a miracle. She gets an ice cream and wanders into a dress shop. She browses, ignoring the racks she’d have focused on a year ago. She runs her fingers over satin and finds a design _she_ likes. An impulse that sounds suspiciously like Malcolm tells her to get the olive green one: she ignores it and buys the emerald.

Wednesday arrives and Nicola has her first major public appearance since losing the leadership. The Government are showing support for a cabinet minister who buggered a policy: strength in numbers. Her party’s there to point that out he’s back peddling. She’s draped shoulder to knee in flowing violet, cream coat framing her contours. She doesn’t straighten her hair, lets it drip dry and curl around her ears. She tells Helen she’ll meet her there and walks to the function, not far from her house and enjoys the open air. A random woman smiles at her as they pass on the street and Nicola has to sit down to collect her thoughts; so long since anyone had done something vaguely nice to her in public she’d forgotten people don’t normally yell at strangers on their way to work.

She ends up in The Guardian the next day; miniscule mention and tiny group photography, but it’s a start. Helen congratulates her, and suggests she starts walking everywhere: make it her lucky charm. Nicola thinks she might just do that.

The seasons change: Helen’s fiancé is offered a job in Wales, and she calls Nicola for advice. ‘You signed on to be advisor to the leader of the party, not some nobody who’d be happy with the back bench. Go to Wales and get a better job, I’ll write you a glowing recommendation.’ Helen almost sobs with relief, and promises to find someone to replace her before she leaves at the end of the month.

She hears a rumour Ollie is having a tough time in Whitehall. She should care, but she finds it a bit hard. Some of her excess irritation spills out in a group debate she’s been roped in to for numbers, and she inadvertently slaughters the Tory in the electorate one over from her. People actually congratulate her after the summit.

Helen has a going away bash and introduces Nicola to Mary, her replacement. As far as professional bonding goes, getting shitfaced, hijacking the karaoke stage and vomiting in the gutter outside the pub aren’t exactly typical, but it seems to work in their favour.

At work, Mary seems to be cut from the same stone as Sam, and Nicola briefly wonders how she’s going; if she stayed with Ollie or moved with Malcolm. She get her answer a week later: Sam resigns from Whitehall, and goes into the private sector. Nicola sends her a card and a bottle of champagne, congratulating her on ditching Ollie. She gets a brief but personal thank you back, and the reassurance if Nicola ever needs some spin, Sam is her woman.

Mary sits her down one afternoon, laptop in hand and a series of questions hand written on a pad. She hands Nicola a pen, ordering her to answer the questions as clearly and quickly as possible. The first instance Nicola pauses she grabs the pad off her and skims through the answers. ‘Not good enough, you need to be quicker. You need to know what you stand for, so figure it out.’ Nicola stares, unsure how to deal with such forceful honestly. Mary smiles and promises to take her out for a drink afterwards, if Nicola can get her opinions together in time.

They get very good at professional bonding outside of office hours.

Nicola notices a few more bouts of sun than they’d normally get, even in summer: knows its global warming and sighs. She takes advantage of the not horrible weather anyway, and starts wearing sundresses; shining floral on cream, bright green belt on flowing ivory, lavender body and magenta trim which Mary says looks quite fetching. Nicola genuinely smiles for no particular reason for the first time in years, wandering out of the bathroom. She catches herself in the mirror as she passes and actually recognises the woman looking back.

Katie visits for the weekend. By Saturday afternoon she’s convinced Nicola’s seeing someone and starts grilling her as they share cooking duties. Ella joins in from her study nest on the lounge, saying she looks too good not to be getting regular sex, and won’t believe a word her mother says otherwise. Nicola looks at her two babies all grown up, and flicks mashed potato at Katie’s nose. The boys walk in on them having a food fight.

Nicola thinks this might be the happiest she’s been in years.

*

She remembers how to talk to people, how to say what she means: if she doesn’t Mary glares at her.

Soon enough she’s getting invitations to party functions. Nothing major, no one particularly important, but she’s getting calls and that’s what matters. She makes friends with a few journalists, even goes on a date with one. It wasn’t disastrous, she wasn’t awkward, and she didn’t spill anything on herself. She gets a nice mention in The Sun a few days later, embedded in a larger article, but never hears back. She doesn’t mind, all in all she thinks not bad work for a free meal.

She does a few radio appearances, a few well known vlogs get her involved. People actually seem to like her, now she isn’t the flighty mad woman from DoSAC or the smug-faced opposition leader. She finds she rather enjoys it; the games behind politics. Having no power of policy narrows the focus. Mary starts hearing rumours about unrest in the shadow cabinet, a few scandals too many have gotten out of late and the Miller is a ‘bit miffed’ with the communications department.

Nicola takes up chess: she’s not very good at first, but she get better quickly.

She get invited to the mid-year cross-cabinet Opposition shindig. She didn’t know if her invitation was mistake, if it was meant to go to someone else, or if there was another Nicola Murray in the Party somewhere: she really didn’t care either way.

She goes out and buys the magenta cocktail dress she’s been eyeing for weeks.

*

She sees Ollie by the bar; thin and shallow, eyes sunken into his skull. He looks like someone has rammed a straw through his larynx, sucked out all the moisture and spat it back in his face. He grabs a carafe of punch and walks over to an unoccupied corner by the wall. Nicola keeps her eyes on him, watching as he reaches inside his jacket and pours a hip flask into the tumbler. She turns back to the conversation, adds her support for educational reforms that addressed the variety of ways in which the human brain learnt. A few people nod, all parents she noted, while others venerate the importance of traditional methods. Nicola would bet any money in the world they were Oxford grads. She interrupts one of the more austere of the group, adding that rote learning is unless outside exam conditions; silently thanking Ella and her coursework.

She glances back over her shoulder, sees Ollie slumped against a wall, carafe on the table he’s commandeered now empty. Nicola excuses herself, sure the conversation would be there if she ever wants to repeat herself, and walks over to him.

“Ollie, what the fuck have they done to you?” He looks up at her with hollow eyes, and whatever pity she denied feeling for him before rushed forward now. He looks like someone hit him with a car and reversed back over him a few times, then locked him the boot for a week.

“He said this would happen, after we got rid of you and then I got rid of him,” he hiccups, loses his train of thought and his logic “You look good by the way,” he smiles at her and it’s heartbreaking. “I’m done, I’m finished and I don’t even care anymore. I’m resigning and joining a think tank, finally heard back from the one I wanted today. This is my soirée,” he swings his arms at all the cliques of people filling the room. “They want to get rid of me, they think they’re being subtle about it but I know what’s going on. You know who they’re bring in to replace me? Twatface Fleming.” Ollie laughed, a harsh bark polar opposite from the glee she remembered him tittering whenever someone stubbed their toe.

“Nicola!” A voice behind them calls out. Nicola had to scrape her nails across her palms to stop from cringing.

“Oh, look. Fucking devil cunt himself appears,” Ollie whispers and pinches another carafe off the bar. Nicola grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as she turns and knows she’ll help Ollie finish that jug.

“Steve, this is a surprise,” level and polite. She doesn’t need to flatter him anymore, or even put up with his face nears hers but they’re at a party and there’s no need to be outwardly rude. She sees he’s about to hug her and she yanks Ollie over and he trips slightly, almost spilling his drink on Steve’s suit: efficient block if she ever saw one. Nicola thinks Ollie might have rubbed off one of the many cross faces he has next to his name.

“Yes, I think it is, but a rather marvellous one, I believe” Nicola’s sure she’s meant to take that as a compliment but he’s leering at her and she just feels dirty. They make light conversation for a few minutes, Nicola’s hand never far from Ollie’s in case he attempts to escape: he owes her, she isn’t going to let him off easily.

A commotion over by the dance floor draws their attention: a few of the younger couples attending, friends of ministers and family, have actually started to make use of space, and their giggles fill the room. Steve turns back to Nicola and she _really_ doesn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Care for a dance, Nicky,” his attempt at a smile is mildly horrifying. Ollie chooses this moment to trip and fall against the wall. Nicola turns to see if he’s alright and feels Steve’s hand slip into hers and yank her sideways. She drops her glass and stumbles slightly, taking a few steps to right herself before she tries to snatch her arm back. His grip is stronger than she expects and her hand doesn’t budge.

She digs her feet into the floor.

“Let go of me!” She shouts, well above the music and chatter. Steve stops walking and turns to her, and Nicola is properly frightened. “Steve Fleming, get your hands _off_ me!” Terror making her brave, tremble in her voice notwithstanding.

The room shift focus, turning to stare at a suited bloke holding onto a panicked woman obviously attempting to regain control of her hand. A few couples emerge from the bowels of the party to stand next to Nicola and Ollie appears at her side, for all his was wobbling. The wonderfully giggly ‘Ginger, like my hair’ Nicola had shared cocktail recommendations with earlier links their arms together and glares like Medusa.

“The lady told you to back off, mate. I suggest you do it.” Ben Swain, of all people, is rather imposing when he wants to be and Steve’s hand slacken. She rips her arm away and someone from security appears behind him, clamping a hand down on his shoulder.

Nicola turns her back, letting Ginger steer her towards ‘a more civilised group of people’ and thanks Ben on the way. Ollie follows to make sure she’s alright, then nicks a few bottles of spirits and scuttles out the back exit. She has to admire his stealth. They start talking about policy reforms instigated by the Tories, and someone mentions the Fourth Sector and how it’s bitten the coalition in the arse.

The rest of the party is a bit of a blur, but Nicola remembers having a blast.

*

She gets a write-up the next day, not mentioned by name but there all the same. A freelance journalist had managed to smuggle themselves in to the party, and they tore Fleming to shreds; accusing him of sexual discrimination and every gender biased action imaginable going back a decade. Turns out Nicola wasn’t the only one he’d tried it on with, just the only one he’d been stupid enough to harass in public.

Fleming disappears, for good this time, as the rest of the tabloids and a few blogs jump in it like wildfire. They all leave her identity alone. They simply state ‘female former cabinet minister’, and Nicola’s rather relieved. Being the scapegoat for Steve Fleming’s inappropriate behaviour is not how she envisioned her triumphant return to the headlines.

Ollie resigns that Friday, just in time for the evening edition. It’s hardly big news, not a shock to anyone with half a brain. What _is_ news is who’s replacing him. Dan Miller instates a relative newcomer to the world of communications in the position, buffeting back assertions of her possible incompetence and previous lack of involvement with Party proceedings.

That all gets trumped by Fleming in the Sunday headlines.

Ministers of the Opposition get quite a surprise when Samantha Cassidy walks through their office doors on Monday; tailored suit, foul mouth and blackberry in hand. Nicola has no idea what’s going on, preoccupied with her daughter’s life but sees a few ministers over the next few week all shaking like they’ve seen a ghost.

The reports continue, and people start giving Nicola a wide berth. Two people with whom she’s had previous disagreements with removed from the party in the same week: one of them currently taking a public flogging. Even if the public don’t know who she is, everyone in Whitehall does and they’re all convinced she had a hand in it. Nicola’s refusal to comment on her involvement whenever anyone asks might have added fuel to the fire, and she doesn’t mind a bit.

Nicola realises Ginger is the freelancer, reading a ‘statement’ quoting something she’d said when it was just the two of them at the pub later that night. She could have kissed the woman; she settles for hugging Mary and jumping around the room.

She calls the redhead and takes her out for dinner.

*

The articles die down, but Nicola manages to stay the golden child of the opposition without a cabinet and everything is wonderful for a few weeks. She gets invited on a few radio programs, does a marvellous job of floating above water. Mary does another pop quiz and actually smiles when she reads Nicola answers.

Helen calls to say the wedding’s been moved forward because she refuses to walk down the aisle showing. It takes Nicola few moments to catch on; she shrieks down the line so loudly Mary runs in thinking she’s seen a mouse. Mary sends her congratulations and Nicola spends her lunch hour wandering through baby shops. She finds some adorable booties she can’t bear not to buy and posts it on her way back.

Mary’s kicking up a fuss when she gets there, something about a cabinet minister getting caught doing something with an as yet unidentified mammal, and they're being forced to resign. Nicola enjoys the gossip as it flows to Mary’s phone, and laughs when she finds out it one of the Oxbridge twats that insulted her the Party function. Something is seriously going her right for her. She’s still smiling when her phone rings.

She picks it up without looking at the caller ID.

“Nicola, how are you?” familiar tone flowing down the line. Mary gets another call and leaves the room.

“Sam?” Nicola doesn’t bother concealing her confusions. “I’m good, how are you?”

“Well actually, I’m in a pickle at the moment. I’m down a cabinet minister and I need you.”

Nicole pauses for a moment, brain churning over until everything smacks her right in the forehead.

“Oh, my God. You’re Samantha,” she hadn’t connected brilliant, kind Sam that used to bring her tea after Malcolm gave her a partially harsh bollocking with the Samantha tearing her way through Shad Cab. Sam laughs, and Nicola can _hear_ the strain leave her voice. “Yes, Nicola. That’s me. You must be the last person on Whitehall to figure that out.”

“Yes, that’s me all over,” Nicola chuckles. “Slow on the uptake.”

“Not from what I’ve been hearing, the whispers around here are positively _brutal_. Contrary Mary over in Government thinks you’ve buried Steve Fleming in your back garden. She was considering sending you flowers but party loyalty got in the way. I need someone like that in cabinet. I have a filling, do you want back in?”

“Of course I want back in, Sam! Sorry, Samantha,” correction herself as she waved Mary back into the room. She’s beaming like a loon and she doesn’t care. “What department?”

Nicola feels her face fall and she doesn’t know whether to laugh at the irony or cry at the tragedy; isn’t even sure which one this actually is. She settles for a particularly venomous ‘ _fucking DoSAC!_ ’


	3. I Never Knew Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mr. Hurricane by Beast

Malcolm didn’t fall: he flew against his will, flung headfirst from the top tier of the tower he’d spent his life scaling. The world laughed as they watched, coat flapping in the wind. The sky ripped at his flesh as he swan dived towards the earth, flaying his skin and rubbing salt in his wounds. Lucifer reached up to swallow him whole, cushion his fall with brimstone and sulphur.

The earth closed behind him, leaving him broken and weeping. He hissed at the bars of his new cage: pain and anger festered within him. It solidified, started to rot him from the inside out. He curled up into a ball, weak as a kitten.

He just wanted to sleep.

*

He prays during the trial, actually _prays_ to stay out of prison.

He begs whoever’s up there to give him this one tiny miracle, in return for all the shit he’s been dragged through. He knows his usual methods of dominance mean nothing there; would probably get him killed if he tries it on the wrong person.

He wasn’t Jamie, who didn’t mind a bit of rough and tumble if the reasons were right. Images are his weapon, words over deeds; threats festering in people’s minds, multiplying and morphing into something truly horrific. In the world of intellect and incompetence Malcolm is a genius; everywhere else he’s just a skinny old man with a temper, half a century under his belt and the tongue of a sailor.

Malcolm’s glad he doesn’t have faith to lose.

They get him for perjury on flimsy, outdated evidence. He understands, he has the reputation of a Velociraptor and all the love that goes with it. There’s only so much a man in a suit with a law degree can do when faced with two decades of press traction deeming him the Devil of Whitehall.

His sentence is _just_ shorter than his trial and he counts that as a blessing.

*

The first week is the hardest.

He can’t deal with the cold: thin, wispy material of the government issue pyjamas no match to the cement walls and freezing cold floor. He has trouble sleeping, for all he has the opportunity to catch up on his slumber debt. He lays awake, staring at the roof and misses the dim shine of his blackberry. The walls get closer and he begins to understand Nicola’s claustrophobia.

He promises to apologise to her if he ever sees her again.

People mostly leave him alone: Malcolm thanks years of internal bile and his cold blood for leaving him old, grey, and decrepit. He has a look through the library, disappointed to see out of date newspapers but he hadn’t really expected people in cells to worry about the outside world. He remembers he started _War and Peace_ twenty-two years ago and never finished it. Better late than never, he thinks: he’s thankful they have it in large print.

Jamie visits for Christmas and Malcom is sure he’s the only person in the world not afraid of gaol or the former King of Spin. He says Sam won’t visit; can’t stand the thought of seeing Malcolm locked up but she sends her love. Jamie manages to smuggle in some socks and Malcolm can’t talk for a good five minutes: he remembers that’s the sort of things friends do for each other. Jamie leaves and he stops moping.

Malcolm is a survivor, that’s what he does. He adapts to his surroundings: he’s a fucking human chameleon, but with more brains

A brawl breaks out in the shower room. He cops an elbow to eyes, not meant for him but the point still stands. He watches blood drip from his cheek and mingle with water at his feet: he wonders if his sister will remember to weed the garden come summer. The wardens come in and break everybody up, screaming murder for the instigator. Malcolm sees the bloke who started it out of the corner of his eye and recognises pure terror: he is on his last limb, has a reputation for starting fights but he’s close to release. If he gets nicked they’ll double his remaining sentence and then some, and Malcolm overheard he’s got a kid on the outside he’s never met. He sees an opportunity and takes it: steps forward and cops the blame.

Malcolm stares at the bloke as they drag him from the showers, and knows he’s made his first ally.

They go easy on him because it’s his first offence since he got there, but they slap another month onto his sentence to make it stick. The fact that he’s skin and bone helps, along with the Scottish warden and Malcolm pleading National Pride against an English twat who insulted his Ma. He gets a night in solitary and he remembers what being alone means: he used to hate it, knowing there was always something more important he could be doing. Now he has nothing but time on his hands it’s actually rather nice.

He gets out and is greeted by Michael, father of a year and a half old son he’s never held and a missus of gold. He also happens to be six foot two and built like a brick shithouse. He finally finishes Tolstoy, and remembers he actually likes reading things that aren’t polity draft and inquiry reports.

Things start looking up for Malcolm.  

*

He starts thinking about what’s he’s going to do when he gets released.

Politics are out. He’s sure as shit not going back to Whitehall, unless it’s to spunk on the PM’s chair and vomit on the carpet. He thinks about the private sector, and it seems like a good idea until he remembers losing the election and the trial ripped his reputation to shreds.

He considers writing his memoirs, knows he’d be set for life on the royalties alone. Then he considers all the lives he’d ruin and thinks better of it. He’s done being the boogie man; the nightmare to teach good morals and better judgment to naughty ministers. They all ignore the lessons anyway: only children believe in fairy tales, and that’s what Malcolm’s become. A two-bit villain from a fucking Disney film: a chip on his shoulder because his attempts to take over the world failed.

He thinks about what he wanted to do, before he signed his soul to the Party and the Government buggered him every which way with dubious consent. He can’t remember wanting anything but politics, wanting anything but the power to help people; a way to make things better. He ended up spending his career spoon feeding idiots who wouldn’t know the difference between elbow scrag and scrotum and getting spat in the face for his troubles.

That decides it.

He starts writing that night, scribbling bits on a note pad he’d gotten for good behaviour. He knows the ins and outs of politics, wrote most of the rules: it was about time he shared his knowledge.  

Michael goes home a month after his son’s second birthday.

*

Malcolm hears about the Party’s new Head of Spin a few days after she takes over: one of the wardens who’s taken a shine to him thinks he might be interested in the new broad who’s taken over his old job and slips him that day’s paper.

Malcolm shouts and almost flips a desk when he reads the name, goes blue in the face when he realises he should have been out and warned Sam away from the heartache she’s signed herself up for. He rants and rages inside his head, screaming at Jamie for letting Sam do something so fucking stupid until he remembers she’s a stubborn lass and Jamie’s word would have had little effect if she didn’t want his advice. Malcolm wouldn’t have fared much better.

His little outburst earns him another month.

The warden doesn’t give him any more papers and he wonders why the fuck he’s still worried what happens outside these slate-grey walls. He starts running in the quad: decides he doesn’t care if he gets the shit kicked out of him in the showers for being a pussy. He’d always been reluctant to before because of his penguin waddle, but Michael had been a popular bloke and his lieutenant reminds Malcolm a bit of Jamie: their wings float above Malcolm, batting away the worst of the ridicule. He still gets paid out but his head doesn’t get kicked in.

He starts wheezing on his fifth lap around the yard rather than half way through the third and Malcolm realises it’s almost time to leave.

He tries to resist counting down the days till he smells air again, and for all his iron resolve he caves, carving the last four nights on his wall. He stays quiet, gives his number to a few of his prison buddies; promises to give them a hand when they get out if he can. He carves his initials under the tally marks, collects his notepad and waits for the cell door to open.

The fallen angel spits him back out into the world.

*

His sister is there to pick him up, kids in toe. He grabs her in a fierce hug and practically sobs into her shoulder. His niece and nephew pull on his trouser legs, yapping ‘Uncle Mal, Uncle Mal’ and he scoops them up and carries them to the car. He wonders what sort of noise they’re making.

He doesn’t realise till they’re almost home he’d forgotten what laughter sounds like.

She drops him off outside his house and hands him her set of keys. She had to get the locks changed, and a window got replaced a few months ago. Malcolm nods, tousles the kid’s hair and gets out of the car, beyond grateful his sister knows him well enough to give him space for a bit.

Aside from the noise the key makes in the lock now, everything is exactly how he remembers it; every cushion, every glass, every suit in his wardrobe. He can’t tell which window she had to replace, the plants are thriving, and the dishwasher is even on the right cycle. He turns on the computer and the TV, planning on catching up with the world, then thinks better of it. He switches everything off again and searches his bookshelf.

He falls asleep on the couch with Borges on his chest.

He’s wakes up at lunchtime the next day with someone thrashing on the door and his stomach rumbling; he’s not sure which actually wakes him, but he really doesn’t care.

He opens the door and gets blasted with more sunlight then he’s seen in a year. He slams his eyes shut before he gets a chance to register who’s at the door, but given the bone crushing hug he finds himself in he assumes it's Jamie. He walks backwards when it becomes obvious he’s not getting let go of any times soon, and shuts the door. An undignified yelp comes from outside, and Malcolm finally opens his eyes. Sam’s scowling a few feet away, rubbing her arm and glaring at Malcolm.

Jamie finally lets go, takes a step back and grabs Sam’s arm, pulling her into a group hug. Malcolm shivers, unsure what he’s meant to be feeling; physical contact has become alien, not just unusual.

Sam’s phone goes off and they break away. She answers it with a forceful ‘what’ and stalks into the living room, Jamie shuffles off to make tea and Malcolm stares: it’s just like old times but all the roles have been recast. His face feels funny and he touches his cheeks.

He realises he’s smiling.

*

They order lunch and he and Jamie listen to Sam scream down her phone as they wait. Malcolm can’t help the little bubble of pride working its way up his throat. She’s managing some atrocities even he wouldn’t utter, and it’s like seeing your daughter win not only the girls division at the school carnival, but the boys as well by a fucking mile. Jamie looks at her with fuck-off giant eyes, and Malcolm’s never seen him look so soft.

Malcolm’s manages to scrape up enough information from Sam’s side of the conversation to figure out someone’s been caught with their hand in the till or their pants round their ankles. The latter seems to be closer to the truth. For a moment he wonders who the minister is, then realises he seriously doesn’t give a shit. The doorbell rings with a Chinese banquet.

Malcolm’s never been happier to see a spotty faced delivery boy in his life.

Jamie grabs some bowls and Sam put her phone on silent for fifteen minutes: screaming bloody maiming down the line every time she answers it until it stops ringing. She curls up on the sofa and Jamie plonks himself down next to her, slings his arm around her shoulder. Malcolm recognises a well-rehearsed action when he sees it and wonders if he’ll get that again.

He buries his thoughts in food, wolfing down the first decent meal he’s had in months. He manages to give himself heartburn from the damn pork. Sam makes a joke about his age and Jamie gets him some water, and for the second time in an hour Malcolm feels like someone’s rewritten the script while he was away.

They sit and chat and fill Malcolm in on all the important details. They don’t ask when happened inside; know he’ll talk about it when he wants, but Jamie does mention getting a call from Michael and Malcolm resolves to get in touch with him. He’d like to meet the baby.

The calls to Sam’s mobile start again, and they group disbands: Sam has a cabinet to beat back into shape, and Jamie has some scaremongering to do. They hug Malcolm by the door and he thinks he could get used to human contact again, given enough time. He shuts the door after them and turns back to his flat.

He feels the urge to redecorate.

*

He starts with the couches, gives them to a neighbour he notices moving in a few doors down. They seem shocked, not used to neighbours talking to them, let alone strangers giving them furniture. He calls his sister for advice on curtains; she says she hasn’t the fucking foggiest about them and puts him onto her husband. He’s extremely helpful, and Malcolm reminds himself to be nicer next time he sees the family.

He gets a cab over to Ikea, browses the shelves for what feels like twenty minutes but is actually closer to several hours, given he gets a friendly shove towards the door via an announcement saying it’s almost closing time. He fills out a form for delivery and goes home to an empty living room filled with light.

He showers and takes all the time in the world; loofahs the shit out of his skin, enjoys the warm water massaging his aching muscles and the fact that noone is watching. He puts on his Armani pyjamas, slides inbetween Egyptian cotton sheets and gaol is just a distant memory.

He wakes up with someone bashing on the bloody door, _again_. He has to hand it to the Swedes, they’ve got their shit together. They have to bring the sofa in through the back door, and his Aloe Vera gets kicked over in the process. He doesn’t even swear. He spends the rest of the day fumbling over instruction manuals, trying to figure out how to build a bookshelf. He drops a piece of wood on his toe and he does swear.

In the end he calls Sam because that’s what he does when he’s in trouble: she comes over and has it sorted inside of ten minutes. They get dinner and he asks why she took the job. ‘Finish what you started, silly’ and Malcolm doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh. He settles for warning her about a few of the stickier twats she’s got to work with, and finds out she’s already got them eating out of her palm. He couldn’t be prouder and she beams with the praise.

She falls asleep on the couch, and Malcolm’s glad he hasn’t thrown any of his blankets away. He wakes up at a more human time and finds she’s left him coffee and a bagel, for all that was hours ago and they’ve gone cold and stale now. He decided he doesn’t want early mornings ever again. There’s a note wishing him a good morning, the address of her favourite bookshop and a few author suggestions. In that second he knows Sam will finished everything he started and outshine him.

He’s still smiling the next day.

*

His skylight stops being so bright and the days start blurring together a bit.

He gets the itch to do something, so he starts running. He finds it relaxing, soles of his feel pounding away at the leaf covered footpath. It gives him time to think, if he wants to; time away from himself, because he spends a lot of it inside his own mind now. He leave his phone at home because he forgets he has it; goes entire days without checking. Sam and Jamie stop calling and just arrive at his doorstep when they want to see him.

He works his way through every  novel in the house and he finds he rather enjoys book shopping, decides it’s his new hobby.

He digs up his note pad, finally gets around to calling his agent. Pat is happy to hear from him, though a little confused, and listens to Malcolm’s proposition. He says he’ll call back in a day or two when he’s done speaking to some publishing companies and finds him an editor.

Malcolm starts working on the book anyway, typing proper sentences. It take him a while to remember how a keyboard feels beneath his fingertips, but gets there in the end. The print on the screen gets hard to read and he gets one of those string things so his glasses won’t fall off his face. Maybe it’s because he’s not squinting all the time, but Malcolm feels younger than he has in years.

Pat calls back a fortnight later; ‘sorry it took so long there was a bidding war’, with an advance that makes Malcolm very happy and promises of the best copy editor the infant side of thirty.

He goes out and buys some new pyjamas.

*

He gets new curtains because he can’t stand the glare on the screen.

It feels good to have something to strive for, a project and a plan. He slaves away, frantically tapping at the keys as the words flow from his fingers. He doesn’t change out of his pyjamas if he can help it: doesn’t understand why people invented clothes in the first place, because all day slumber parties are incredible. He lives off coffee and satsumas and at the end of every chapter he has a few brief moments where he feels like the old Malcolm Tucker.

That’s normally when he switches off, goes for a run or a pint with Michael and unknots his shoulders.

He finishes the bare bones and sends it away; prints it off to post first because he’s ancient, then remembers everything in the world is digital now and emails it instead. Things are quiet for a few weeks and he thinks maybe it got lost in someone’s inbox. He get invited over to the neighbours for dinner, smiles when he sees his old couches. He and Lawrence share recipes and Malcolm offers to babysit their daughter after Simone complains about having to cancel their weekend away at the last minute.

Sam gives him a copy of _The Bloody Chamber_ : story time with the kids changes dramatically.

He’s making curry, ranting to himself about ghee, telling the microwave how much he loves it when there’s a brisk knock at the door. He opens it to a petite woman, brown hair bobbed short and fluttering slightly. She bustles in, ‘Allison, nice to meet you’, and sits herself down in the living room. Malcolm storms in behind her, about to query what she’s doing here and ‘can you fuck off, thank you very much’, when his phone rings. It’s Pat, warning him that his spitfire of an editor is on her way over to his.

‘Thank for the heads up, mate. Real fucking useful.’

She’s smiling, eyes dancing behind thin lenses, ‘they warned me about you.’ She snaps open her briefcase, pulls out a transcript and hands it out to him. ‘I prefer things old school,’ he recognises his chapter heading under a mountain of red pen. ‘You’ve got a lot of work to do, so you’d best get a move on. Oh, that smells good, do you cook? Guess I’m staying for lunch then.’ She grabs a book off the coffee table and sinks into the sofa. ‘What are you waiting for? Get to work.”

He decides he already likes her.

*

Allison adopts his house for an office.

She appear at his doorstop at five to eleven every morning, coffee in hand and more work to be done. They slave away, a symphony of tap-tick-tap and pen on paper filling the house as snow falls outside. This his life now and this has always been her job: they churn out drafts like it’s going out of fashion.

Jamie calls one afternoon and he can hear Sam bustling in the background. He asks how things are going, and Malcolm tells him about the woman currently invading his house. ‘She’s like a bloody pit-bull, but with nicer hair. You two’d get on great’. Allison overhears and beams at him, smug and content: her smile reminds him of someone but he can’t think who.

She’s curious; about him, about politics and what he used to do. ‘That’s why I fought tooth and claw, so I could meet you’. She never interrupts him while he’s working, always waits until he takes a break to take hers too. She inundate him with questions; about Whitehall and its occupants, spin and all the tricks of the trade, the history of the book she’s taken under her wing. She’s silent so much of the time, but she’s talkative when you get the right subject.

Eventually she works her way to up the trial: asks how much of it was real.

He stares at her for a moment, impressed with her gusto; he hasn’t spoken about it to anyone yet, but he spends more time with Allison than he does by himself now. He finds he doesn’t mind her asking, and the words tumble out of him like water.

They finish the final draft and start talking about a publishing schedule.

Malcolm balks at the idea of touring to promote his book, can’t stand the idea of travelling about the country in a ratty van while it’s freezing, staying in shit hotels and trying to keep his language mild in case there’s children around. He’s developed a taste for creature comforts and refuses to give that up. They think about some television interviews, then realise he’d get massacred on camera if they book with the wrong people. Malcolm makes a list of all the people in the media he’d ever torn to shreds.

He’s up half the night.

Pat comes over for a strategy meeting and they start planning. Slow and steady wins out: nudge a rock and watch it build momentum as it bowls down the hill. Minimal effort for maximum results. Malcolm likes the idea of not having to do very much. He sits back and watches them glued to the phone, settling dates with publishers and radio hosts. He’s considering whether to make lunch or order in when his phone goes off.

Malcolm smiles when Sam pops up on the caller I.D. “Hey pet, haven’t seen you in a while. How’s things?”

“They’ve called the election, four months time. Can I borrow your brain?”

*

They change strategies: hard and fast, like a fucking whirlwind.

The next fortnight is a blur, TV appearance after press launch after radio interview. Malcolm forgets which way is up and what side of the bed he sleeps on. He can’t be arse to shave one morning and forgets for a few days; Allison complements the five o’clock shadow and he decides to make it permanent. 

He tries to keep up with the political developments swirling on around him, but he finds it difficult to keep up. He wouldn’t care in the slightest, given the circumstances, except that Sam has a vested interest in it all and therefore so he does too.

He’s booked into for BBC radio, one of the last handful of press meets he has to do before the launch date arrives. He’s tired as bollocks, grumpy and irritable and it reminds him too much of his Labour days. He needs a decent nights rest; his brain isn’t working to capacity. That’s why it takes him a few seconds longer than it should to realise Sam is standing outside the recoding booth where the producer had dumped him. She smirks, and hands him a cup of coffee; still the best PA in existence and then some.

Malcolm is certain she’s going to take over the world.

“Hey darling, didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I was here for Nicola’s voice off with Mannion, thought I’d wait around for fifteen and wish you luck.”

“What, Nicola Murray, Nicola?!” He dismisses the feeling in his stomach as fatigue. “What’s she doing talking to Mannion?”

“She’s shadow minister. I haven’t told you?”

“No, love, must’ve skipped your mind, what with it having fallen out your ears. What possessed you to put Glummy Mummy back in cabinet? Were you that fucking hard pressed you had to scrape the very bottom of the bottom barrel of incompetence?”

“You’d be surprised, Malcolm. She’s scrubbed up into something quite good. I wouldn’t have told you about the punch up then, would I?”

The DJ interrupts them, grabs Malcolm by the elbow with an apology to Sam. ‘I’ll come over later, make me something fancy’ and the door shuts behind him. Malcolm square his shoulders as he sits down, pushing all thoughts of Nicola Murray and Whitehall and Sam’s apparently misplaced brain she seems convinced she still owns. He can deal with all that later.

It’s time to pimp the shit out of his genius.

*

It comes off the printer just in time for the Christmas rush.

Malcolm still doesn’t understand publishing, how it works or the organisation and energy that goes into it: he probably never will. He just listened to the advice people gave him and hoped for the best. He looks at the hardcopy in his hands and thinks it turned out alright. His name stares back, large and demanding on the eyes. It all paid off: all those words, aching muscles and tied eyes; all those hours and night, thoughts and memories. All there in his hand; printed, pressed, and bound.

He grins like a contented cat for the better part of a week.

He sends a copy to Sam, post-it notes some specific pages and gift wraps it. She and Jamie come over on Christmas Eve, crash tackling him into the hallway; careful not to crush the presents as they hug him till his bones ache. Apparently they’re very flattered with his depictions. They toast to Sam’s genius, Malcolm success, the downfall of the Tories, and the beginning of a new Governmental Administration; a merry time is had by all.

He regrets it the next day, but his sister’s turkey makes his head feel better.

New Year comes and goes and it sells like hotcakes, for all it is a niche market. Malcolm knows every MP in Britain has bought a copy, along with every aspiring politician in the making. They want to know the insider lane, the fast track to power. They’re all in it for the wrong reasons, but Malcolm is happy to spend the rest of his life living off people’s misplaced intent. He’s been doing it for twenty years, he sees no harm in continuing.

He’s content to stay in pyjamas for the rest of his life. 

*

People recognise him on the street now, and he can’t help but blame talk show TV for ruining his once stress reliving jogging route. He agrees to do a few book signings scattered about the country, intimate gathering in major cities and nothing too strenuous. He get Simone to look after his plants while he’s away. He wonder if he should take a holiday somewhere, when all this has died down. Maybe Spain, he’s always wanted to go there.

Slowly but surely the frantic pace of press launches diminishes to a manageable level, and Malcolm gets the chance to breathe again. He wonders how Sam’s doing, reads between the articles and knows she’s a clever girl. He starts catching up on the polling: sees the figures and knows he couldn’t have done a better job. He calls a few times, to congratulate her, but gets her voicemail.

He remembers when he was that busy and he really doesn’t miss it.

The deadline for the election gets closer and closer and Jamie stops by more often, irritated and angry. Sam’s working like mad, he never sees her and when she does get home at a decent time she’s stressed out of her brain. He’s driving himself mental not being able to help. Malcolm starts keeping a few bottles of Scotch on hand, and promises Sam a weekend retreat when this is all over. Hell, he’d give her a year if he knew she’d take it, with all he owes her.

D-day arrives and Sam finally calls back; tells him to get over to hers and scrub the shit out of Jamie. She wants them both at Head Quarters that night, spiffed up and shining. She want them there when them win.

Malcolm’s glad he kept his tux.


	4. Raise your hopeful voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová

Nicola wake up the next morning, before the hustle and bustle of the house starts. She lays in bed enjoying the silence for a few minutes before kicking herself from under the covers. She spends longer in the shower than normal, relishing the warmth rushing over her back; she tells herself she’s simply taking her time, not stalling. She scrubs her teeth twice, so lost in daydreams and dread she forgets she’s already done them. She towels off, puts on underwear and throws on a dressing gown to go and unpack the work wardrobe.

She gets to the door, rests her hand on the knob and stops.

She turns round, walks over to the dresser and pulls out a pair of beige stockings. She rolls them on and opens up her closet; shining sapphire twinkles at her. She smiles, pulls the hanger out of the cupboard and slips into the pencil skirt. Throws on a camisole and buttons up a pale primrose shirt, looks in the mirror and readjusts the jacket, flicks the collar out. She applies her makes up and hears the boys start crashing down the stair.

She pads down the stairs, fixes them some breakfast and reminds them to let their sister sleep. They eat, mumbling information about what’s happening at school today through mouthfuls of cornflakes. She rushes back upstairs, grabs her things; slides into her heels and runs back down again to usher them all out of the house.

They manage it in record time and she starts looking forward to getting to the office.

*

Mary’s waiting for her, sitting on a bench seat, furiously tapping away at her phone. She shoots Nicola a reassuring smile and they walk into the building together. They cross the threshold and she feels a sort of dull pride, mingled with disgust. Nicola’s proud she got back into cabinet so quickly; she thought it would take _years_ , but that pride is threated by the fact that she now the shadow of where she’d first started.

Then she looks at Mary, who seems far more at home here than she ought to, already researching the back log of policies stacked up on Nicola’s desk. She knows things are going to better this time. She’s read the rulebook now, knows how the game is played.

She starts pencilling in additions.

She grabs her smugness by the balls, uses it to her advantage. She loses the baffled panicky look and her dance card starts to fill up. She tries to make friends with the other ministers in her building; all cocky, arrogant bastards she knows sneer at her behind her back.

She _does_ makes friends with their advisors, because they’re still people and their company doesn’t make her teeth itch. She works late a lot, catching up on all the things Mary and Samantha expect her to know so she doesn’t arse up public statements. She sees the cleaner so often they start having late night tea parties. Janine’s tells the most marvellous stories and Nicola’s captivated by her accent.

The weather turns cold and her wardrobe starts to look empty again. She dredged up her winter suitcase, pleasantly surprised to find more colour than she’d expected. She still want to go shopping so she takes Ella with her, mother-daughter bonding before university. Ella’s found herself a boyfriend, and they have ‘the chat’: mortified faces all round so they stop in at the pub before rummaging through more clothing racks. Nicola finds a coat that makes her feel like a buttercup when she buttons it up, and Ella demands she buy it.

She wears it to work the next day and Mary laughs.

Samantha pops over to see if everything’s smoothed down and double takes as she walks in the door. Nicola sees Malcolm’s face on Sam’s features for a moment and thinks she’ll have to burn it. Then she makes eye contact and beams so brightly the coat seems dull by comparison. The three of them sneak off during lunch to go shopping: if anyone notices the peacock green trench coat Samantha’s wearing is different to the suit jacket she had on that morning, they’re smart enough not to mention it as she bollocks them three days from tomorrow.

*

It’s not all puppies and kittens though, sometimes the cat claws its way out of the bag.

Mannion kicks up a fuss about her appointment, states she was incompetent in his position, hopeless as Leader of the Opposition, and she’ll remain inept as Shadow Minister for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. The tabloids have a field day. Her past comes back to haunt her, every mistake she made as leader bites her in arse and she swears she’s going to kick Peter in the nads next time they’re in the room together.

Samantha and Mary come to her rescue and spurn Mannion for misogyny, pointing out he never bothered to say that about Nicola’s male predecessor, or any other maladroit minister that had something blow up in their face. Ginger has a field day with the material they give her, and Nicola becomes her pin-up for Female Empowerment in Politics. It helps that Labour has more female cabinet ministers that any other major party, and the Party starts pushing Civil Liberties.

Then James gets arrested after a bar brawl, and the divorce gets dragged through the mud. The kids are angry, she’s pissy, and Katie comes home. Samantha is a marvel and a fortnight later there isn’t a single mention of Nicola’s failed marriage. Instead, the headlines are littered with some footballer’s coke addiction, and Nicola and a quote about women in the work place gets shoved towards the middle. They use a decent photo of her though, and she marks that down as a win.

Ginger’s still kicking up a fuss on the feminist front and Nicola thinks she might marry the woman.

*

She travels over to Wales for the wedding, leaves the kids at home and thanks whoever’s looking over Nicola for introducing her to a redheaded angel. Aside from being wonderful company and almost single handily engineering a 180 degree turn on Nicola’s public persona in the most subtle, skilled display of journalist integrity she’s has ever witnesses, the boys are absolutely smittened with her. She makes for a wonderful babysitter, for all she almost burns the house down when her attempts at cooking, as Nicola later learns.  

It’s freezing but gorgeous, and Helen is absolutely shining as she walks down the aisle. Helen’s fiancé is properly speechless and Nicola can’t help but get a bit weepy at how happy they look. She’s not sure how to do social functions without a partner, and she feels rather awkward. She considers the bar, but decided the tab wouldn’t sustain her. She skips on staying the night and heads back to London instead: gets home late and the house is asleep.

The next morning she sleeps in late, she has the day off anyway: only wakes because of a thunderstorm in her dream. She crawls her way to consciousness and realises the sound is actually someone frantically smashing on her door. Mary bursts in, blackberry going berserk in her hand. Ginger rolls in behind, half dressed and barely awake.

“They’ve called the fucking election!”

Her day becomes very busy.

*

The real trial, the actual most trying day of Nicola’s career, comes one otherwise pointless Thursday.

Geoff from across the hall and two doors down goes mental. Someone leaked material about him agreeing to cross the floor for a particularly controversial bill that had most Lib Dems and a few of the younger Tories coming over to Labour’s turf, before it got shafted in favour of polling numbers. The emails make him look like a bigoted dick, which Nicola thinks he is, and he goes tearing through the building like a wildebeest looking for the leak.

She hears him shouting as he passes; she knows she didn’t leak it and she’s survived Malcolm Tucker so she’s really not bothered. He’s ranting like a nutbar on cocaine, and Nicola tries to think of a time when she’s ever heard such utter defamatory rubbish spew out of someone’s mouth. She draws a blank and goes back to reading.

Then she heard Mary’s attempt at a rebuttal, voice cracking as she tells him it wasn’t her.

Nicola’s wrenching her door open in seconds, yelling as she strides down the corridor. “Back off, she’s not the leak!” Mary spins and scrambles towards the door; her youth showing through her eyes, screaming scared. She stops when Nicola stays put. “It’s not her fault your shit hit the fan. Maybe instead of bullying _my_ adviser, you should be asking yours very nicely if they can help you think of way to deal with this shit-storm you’ve managed to brew?”

The only thing worse than an irate moron is an irate moron with a bruised ego.

“Who the fuck asked you?” He bears down on her, eyes bulging out of his head and the vein in his throat about to explode. “Stupid bitch, fuck off out of my face.” He’s practically frothing at the mouth now, and few advisers have come to split them up. “Fucking nosy cunt.”

Nicola’s certain she’s never moved so quickly in her life.

The slap of bone colliding with flesh rings through the corridor, echoed by the crack of cartilage. He stumbles back and trips on his laces. Her hand throbs and she’s not sure she’s ever been so furious, yet so detached. She glares down at him, eyes dull and determined.

“Call me a cunt again and I’ll smash your teeth in and wear them as a necklace.” She’s level and rational and fully capable of grievous bodily harm. He stares at her, hand nursing his nose as blood drips between his fingers, dotting his white shirt spots. She turns tail, coat fanning out behind her; gathers Mary up by the shoulders and ushers her back into the office. Samantha drops by half an hour later. They go to the pub and get rat-arsed.

Geoff resigns.

People look at her differently after that, a strange assortment of awe and fear, and a weird sort of fascination. It bothers her for a while: she doesn’t know where she’s seen it before. Then she realises that’s the look people used to give Malcolm, and she doesn’t know if she should be elated or disturbed.

They nickname her black widow.

*

DoSAC attempts to push a new policy through under the radar, totally ill conceived and rushed in a last ditch attempt to rake in some points before polling starts. Ginger spots it, gift that keeps on giving, and kicks up a fuss about it. Mannion back peddles and suggests a radio debate to settle the matter, invites his ‘esteemed shadow minister’ to join him. Nicola shudders when she thinks of how well the last one went, knows that’s why Peter suggested it, and considers not doing it. Then she remembers the trash talk he threw around about her and the shakes stop: bastard will be lucky to have his balls when she’s done with him.

She primps up that morning, knows a fancy pair of knickers keeps the nerves away and Mary coaches the shit out of her in the car on the way there. She’s graceful and charming and the DJ seems like a decent sort. Peter’s as charming and snarky as ever, but Emma sneers at her. Phil just looks sort of vacant.

Mannion bumbles around as much as usual, but Nicola manages to keep the smug to a minimum and comes across as competent and knowledgeable. She sees Samantha giving her the thumbs up through the glass, and Mary Drake appears with a scowl. They break for an interlude and they can hear Contrary bollock the living daylights out of Peter from around the corner.

Nicola has to bite her hand to stop from laughing.

They head back for the second half of the debate and Peter somehow manages to get worse. She sees Samantha and Mary Queen of Shouts leave the sound booth, and only Sam comes back. Nicola assumes the government has given up on Mannion and left him to fend for himself. She feels a bit sorry for him but no less proud of herself, then decides enough is enough when a few extremely unsavoury text messages come in. She redirects her fire to the entire department and manages to make Fergus sound like a tit too.

Scary Mary appears again and Nicola knows she’s done a marvelous job.

Her Mary slaps her on the back as they leave, suggests they go and get cake. Nicola’s all for it, but Sam say she’s meeting a friend in the building so take her car back to the office. She sees Phil turn white as they walk past him and Emma, hears him whisper ‘Malcolm Tucker, in the fucking building’ as they walk down the stairs.

She dismisses the feeling in her stomach as hunger.

*

The final months disappear in a haze; leafleting and hustling and public appearances dragging her from morning to the night without registering what’s going on inbetween. The kids stay with James, she doesn’t even notice when Christmas comes and goes: she’s barely home and she’s glad she doesn’t have any pets. Mary keeps Nicola’s head from exploding; stoic and competent by her side. They see Samantha running inbetween minister’s offices and TV appearances, looking flustered and stressed but so on the ball she’s almost ahead of it.

Nicola doesn’t know how she does it, and vows to ask when the election is over.

She hears whispers of Malcolm’s name more and more often, and doesn’t understand why until she passes a bookshop; front window displaying piles of hardcovers all screaming his name out at her. She goes in, flicks through the book and can’t help snorting at his biography on the front leaf. She skims the first page and her throat goes dry.

She snaps the book shut and leaves the store without a word.

Her approval rating is solid, positive even: a vast improvement on the numbers to her name when she’d been elected leader. She assumes that’s a good sign for her future career, for all she doesn’t want Leader; Foreign Secretary, on the other hand, is a whole different matter entirely.

She campaigns her ladybollocks off and hopes all this pays off.

*

The end arrives and Nicola wakes up refreshed, more relaxed than she had been in months.

Mary had demanded she go home and actually sleep, ‘no point you winning your seat if you collapse from exhaustion. And you’d better be ready to celebrate come tomorrow’. Nicola had resisted at first, then realised there really wasn’t much sense in her staying, so she’s headed home early and enjoyed the silence of the house before curling up.

It turned out to be an extremely good choice.

She potted about the house, not sure what she should be doing. She’d already packed up her office; sure she wasn’t staying there, regardless of the election outcome. She can’t stand not doing anything, so she cleans the already immaculate house and bakes a cake. She picks up a book, a copy of _Perfume_ she’s had sitting in the shelves for ages and races through it. She gets a call from Mary saying they’re expected at Brewers Green that evening: some sort of polling party she needs to be at, get Ginger to come too. She gets a message from Samantha an hour later telling her to dress up, and be on time: they have good news. Nicola abandons the book and assaults her wardrobe.

She rummages through hanger after hanger, till she gets to the back where she pushes everything she can’t wear at work. She grins, and pulls out a slinky red number; deep crimson satin and curved to fit. She jumps in the shower, almost slips on the tiles floor as she does a little groove. She dries off: underwear, stocking, make up, jewellery. The doorbell rings as she stepping into the dress, and she’s still struggling with it as she opens the door. Ginger laughs and steadies Nicola before she falls over, zips her up and asks why she can smell baking. Nicola shows her the cake, leaves her munching and runs back up stair to get some shoes. Perfume, one last preen in the mirror and a touch more lipstick: she hears the beep of a taxi, grabs her bag and flies out the door the redhead’s holding open for her.

They pull up out the front of Brewers Green and fall out of the cab.

Somehow they’ve managed to scoop all the minister out of the wing and refill it with all the useful, behind the scenes people. The room is buzzing, worker bees flying from one flower to the next: phones constantly ringing, and every available TV turned into the results.

Samantha spots them walking in the door, and waves them over. She kidnaps Ginger: Nicola can hear them talking communications as they walk down the hall. Nicola stands in the room for a moment, and feels awkward. She looks at the Leader’s office, her old office, and realises she doesn’t miss it.

There’s an uproar of shouts and someone slaps her on the back. She turns towards the TV to see her electorate has voted in their favour.

*

More and more Minsters filter in as the minutes wear on; the outvoted head home again to sulk, the successful join Nicola in what she thinks used to be a collection of offices. Except now they’re one big room full of joyous, tipsy politicians and soft jazz. Someone must have been stockpiling champagne for months; a fact which she’s glad of when Dan Miller comes her way. She’s not bitter about being pushed out, not anymore, but there’s still something so infuriating about his political persona. As he shakes her hand and his smiles doesn’t quiet reach his eyes, Nicola thinks she’s been spoilt; surrounding herself with actual honest people since she was forced to resign. He’s pleasant enough, though, along with everyone else in the room, so Nicola decides to think about it another time.

She glances towards the door every now and then, hoping to catch Samantha and congratulate her: Nicola knew she’d been grinding bones for the last four months. Nicola probably owes her an entire cellar of wine, come to think of it. She finally appears, but she’s squished between two sweary Scotsmen so Nicola decides to bide her time.

She’s not surprised Jamie is here, bursting with pride every time someone congratulates Sam. Malcolm is another story; she’d have thought this was the last place he’d want to be on election night. The she remembers it was always about the Party with Malcolm, not the people; this isn’t salt in his wounds, this is his legacy. She glances at him more than she should as the three make their rounds around the room, until Samantha ducks out and down the corridor, back to where the real work is being done. She’s staring partially to figure him out and partially because he looks decades younger than he did when she last saw him: he’s sporting a chin-full of fur and a suit.

Nicola thinks it rather works for him, and blushes.

Samantha runs back into the room and cuts the music: the countdown’s ended. They decimated the new Opposition. Nicola retreats to the corner of the room, closest to the exit: these are her colleagues, not her friends; she wonders what Samantha’s done with Ginger. She stares at her phone and knows Mary’s already out with her mates getting trashed. Someone stops in front of her, she can see their shoes under her phone but she’s messaging Katie so they’ll have to wait. She doesn’t realise they’re offering her a drink until it’s shoved in her face.

She takes the glass, puts the phone in her clutch and looks up and into the smiling face of Malcolm Tucker and almost drops it.

“Looks like you did alright for yourself,” wolfish grin and whiskers.  She smiles into the lip of her glass. “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Actually, I suppose it is,” she mumbles. “If you hadn’t forced me out, I’d have stayed inept.” She’s gotten philosophical these past few years. “I’m still not thanking you.”

He chuckles, and he sounds relaxed. Nicola doesn’t remembering him ever sounding relaxed.

“Wasn’t expecting you to, love. I just wanted…” he trails off, mulling things over in his mind. “I’m sorry. About a lot of things. Not that I’d take them back, but I’m sorry that they had to happen.”

Nicola stares at him, trying to mesh the image she had of him in her mind with the one she has next to her: they don’t fit anymore.

“You’ve changed.”

“I went to prison, of course I’ve fucking changed." His eyes rack over her form. “So have you. You still give me tinnitus,” he barbs, but she felt his gaze linger. “This entire room is too loud. Fuck me, I’m getting old.”

“Shut up, Malcolm, you’re not that old. But you’re right, it is too loud. Think I might head home, hug Samantha on the way and finish my book.” She misses the look in his eye when she says she’s leaving.

“I know she’s got a bottle of very fine rye whisky in her office she’s planning on breaking open when she gets a chance to ditch the party. Want to keep it company until she arrives?”

She can hear the hope in his voice, and pretends to consider. “That sounds wonderful. Come on, lead the way,” she links her arm with his “I don’t know where we’re going.”

They sashay out the door.

“What, you’ve never seen Sam’s office?” Malcolm’s genuinely shocked. “No, all my bollockings happen in my office now.”

“Well then, explains why Sam’s so fit. All that running between here and your shit-wing of the building.” Nicola chuckles, laughs forward and pulls at his arm slightly “Hardly! They’re not actually that regular anymore. Though they are as formidable as yours, if not more.”

“I’m taking that as a fucking compliment.” He hadn’t lost his sneer. “This one,” he yanks her sideways and opens a door.

Nicola yelps and stumbles, slipping in her heels. She ends up between the doorframe and Malcolm, his arm around her waist to stop her face planting. She finds her feet, stands up and realises how close they are. Something in his eye catches her and she feels a shudder trail down her spine; his body presses against her.

He kisses her like burning.

Soft lips and warm mouth, sure tongue sliding over hers. His hands find her hips, bruising and delicious; she whimpers, clinging to his collar so her knees don’t give out. Fingers trail up the seam of her gown and she melts against him. Scalding mouth sears a trail down her neck and she wraps her arms around him. He tongues at her flesh and she realises she’s not just holding on.

She’s never letting go.


End file.
